


sweet solitude

by youcouldmakealife



Series: it's a setup [17]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, YCMAL 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26048167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: He goes home, unpacks, has Joey time all alone. It’s not decompressing if there’s nothing to decompress; well, there is, but it’s not something that chilling in front of his TV and half-watching something while he fucks around on his phone is going to fix. Only thing that will is Scratch talking to him again, but Joey’s not going to push, because Scratch doesn’t want him to push, and Joey respects that, and so Joey will just sit in front of his stupid TV and watch his stupid shows during stupid Joey time, and nobody barges in without a prior invite and everything is terrible.
Relationships: OMC/OMC
Series: it's a setup [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669567
Comments: 28
Kudos: 320





	sweet solitude

Scratch still isn’t talking to Joey when they get back to Kansas City. Well, he’s not _not_ talking to him, he said ‘good morning’ once, and when Joey lost an edge during practice there was a ‘nice work, Money’, but those seemed more like knee-jerk reaction than anything, just shit you say to your teammate in the morning or when he trips over his own damn feet, the same thing that Scratch would say to Willy or Bugsy or Shithead. He sits with Trigger on all the flights instead of his careful starter-backup tandem, and Joey sits with Willy once, alone the rest of the time. 

Usually by the end of a roadie Joey’s grateful to see the back of the lot of them, even Scratch if it’s been a really long one, but this time he finds he has to bite his tongue not to plaintively ask Willy if he has any lunch plans or anything. He’s sure he does. It’s Willy. Willy always has plans. He’d probably include Joey in whatever they are, he’s a more the merrier type, but it isn’t even that Joey actually _wants_ to hang out with Willy, he’s just — he’s lonely, he guesses. This has to be the first road trip he’s ever ended not needing to hide in his apartment and have some Joey time. He had plenty of it on the road.

He goes home, unpacks, has Joey time all alone. It’s not decompressing if there’s nothing to decompress; well, there is, but it’s not something that chilling in front of his TV and half-watching something while he fucks around on his phone is going to fix. Only thing that will is Scratch talking to him again, but Joey’s not going to push, because Scratch doesn’t want him to push, and Joey respects that, and so Joey will just sit in front of his stupid TV and watch his stupid shows during stupid Joey time, and nobody barges in without a prior invite and everything is terrible.

Well, except the Scouts, who continue their win streak at home, which means it’s time for a giant fucking party, and Joey is ready for it. He’s going to go hoarse trying to yell over everyone else, and he’s going to wake up with his head pounding, and in the meantime, he’s going to socialize with a bunch of people he likes. People that include Owen, who gets there not long after the first wave of Scouts, and Joey’s been too caught up in wondering what the fuck is going on with Scratch to worry about it being awkward, but he is worried now.

And for a minute it is, the wave Owen gives him sort of tentative, like he’s not sure if he should go over, is leaving it in Joey’s hands, that if Joey wants to keep his distance from him all night he’ll respect that. And there’s a small, hurt part of Joey that genuinely does want to stay away, but he sucks that part up — the fact that he kind of desperately needs some human interaction makes that easier than it would usually be — and walks over to say hi.

“Someone just ran by me with no shirt on,” Owen says. “He was too fast for me to tell if it was one of your guys, but—”

“I can almost guarantee it was one of our guys,” Joey says. “Would put money on it, even.”

Owen grins. “It’s probably a good thing I don’t have any classes tomorrow, isn’t it?” 

“If you don’t leave shitfaced I will be so impressed by your restraint,” Joey says.

“I don’t know if that was a challenge to get shitfaced or to stay sober,” Owen says.

“Trust me,” Joey says. “It won’t be a challenge to get shitfaced.”

Like he’s been beckoned by the word ‘shit’, Shithead shoves a tray of shots into Joey’s hands, liquid sloshing everywhere, then goes back to the bar without a word, presumably to get more shots to shove in unsuspecting teammates’ hands. Joey’s pretty sure these are all on Willy’s tab, and he’s also pretty sure the bill at the end of the night is going to make even Willy, ten million dollar man, flinch, unless he’s drunk enough to feel no pain, up to and including the financial kind.

“Um,” Owen says.

“Shot?” Joey asks. 

“When in Rome,” Owen says, taking one of the shot glasses with a daintiness that’s completely belied by the way he takes it like a pro. 

“Nice,” Joey says. “Great form.”

“I try,” Owen says, and Joey grins at him, partly for the great performance but also for like — the great performance, he guesses, because Owen’s just being Owen. Maybe that isn’t a performance at all. Either way it’s a relief.

“That shot tasted like nothing,” Owen says. “I don’t even know what it was.”

“I guarantee it was the really good stuff,” Joey says. Willy would have started top shelf while everyone still had tastebuds. They’ll probably hit the bar rail at the end of the night, but just because there’s no top shelf left.

“I’m leaving this bar shitfaced, aren’t I,” Owen says, almost like he’s musing, and then takes another shot from Joey’s tray, holding the tray for Joey after so he can catch up.

“I’m just warning you in advance I am a very dumb drunk,” Joey says. “Who does dumb things when…drunk.”

The shots haven’t even hit him yet, so sadly he can’t blame them for that sentence.

“I do remember the story of you almost drowning last Halloween,” Owen says.

“I haven’t almost drowned even once since then,” Joey says. “And that’s not a fair example. My competitive instincts had kicked in.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” Owen asks.

“Yes,” Joey says. “Help me get rid of these shots so we don’t die before midnight.”

“It would be my honor,” Owen says, and they safely distribute them to Scouts and Scout adjacents and random people — it’s technically a private party, but people have a way of getting in anyway — because thankfully it looks like Joey was one of the first, if not the first guys to get a tray of shots shoved at him. He knows from experience it’ll be harder to get rid of them in the middle of the night, when people are feeling it, then just as easy to get rid of them towards the end, when people aren’t feeling anything anymore.

“Vodka sodas,” Owen says.

“Vodka sodas,” Joey agrees. Pacing is very important. They have practice in less than 36 hours, and that sounds like a long time right until the hangover crashes over you. Joey’s getting old.

“You’re twenty-five,” Owen says.

“Old,” Joey sighs.

“Okay, kid,” Owen says. “Find us a spot, my old eyes can’t handle the search.”

“You’re twenty-five too,” Joey protests.

“But I’m apparently _ancient_ ,” Owen says. 

They’re both ancient, because Joey starts flagging when the ELC dudes are still noisy in the pretending to be drunker than they are, ‘woo Scouts!’ way, rather than the actually plastered noisy way. Joey remembers when that was him, when him and Scratch would ride along happily tipsy and cheerful right up until towards the end of the night, when the wave hit and everything after was blurry if it was remembered it all. So many mistakes made on those nights once the wave arrived. 

Joey hasn’t had a shot since the start of the night, has been firm and unbending in his refusals, even when Cuddles plaintively told him that Willy said he’d have to drink whatever he couldn’t get rid of — that got Owen to take pity on him, because he’s nicer than Joey is — but even so he’s officially reached the ‘oh, I am drunk, aren’t I’ portion of the night, which is usually a more fun time than it is right now. 

Joey saw Scratch at the beginning of the night — attached to Trigger, of course — but he hasn’t seen him since. He wonders if Scratch has hit the drunk portion, or if he’s still in the good tipsy place. Joey would have probably been in the good tipsy place a year ago. He definitely was, because he distinctly remembers Willy falling off the bar and Scratch nearly dragging Joey down when he grabbed him for support he was laughing so hard, and that would have been way later in the night.

“Joey?” Owen says.

“Hm?” Joey asks.

“What’s up?” Owen asks. 

“I miss Scratch,” Joey mumbles.

“Okay,” Owen says after a moment. “Let’s see if we can find him for you?”

“He won’t want to see me,” Joey says. “I don’t want him to see me just to not want to see me, you know?”

“Uh,” Owen says. “Somewhat?”

Joey sighs. 

“Is this about the—” Owen says. “What I said?”

“He says he needs space,” Joey says. “But I don’t want—”

He notices his chin is on Owen’s shoulder. He’s not sure how that happened.

“Space?” Owen asks after a moment, not shrugging Joey’s chin off like any of his teammates would, except Scratch. Well. Scratch too. Scratch wouldn’t let Joey’s chin get anywhere near him right now. But Owen doesn’t, even though it might not seem like buddies, especially after last week. He’s such a good guy, Owen.

“Yeah,” Joey says. “You’re such a good guy, Owen.”

“Thanks,” Owen says. “You are too, Joey. Let’s get you an Uber, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Joey sighs, because if ‘oh I’m drunk’ is this bad, drinking more is not going to improve things.

“Maybe get — Trigger lives near you, right?” Owen asks.

“Yeah, next door,” Joey says. “Like, building door, not apartment door. Next door sort of.”

“Okay, let’s see if we can find Trigger,” Owen says.

“He’ll probably be with Scratch,” Joey mumbles.

He isn’t with Scratch. Scratch has apparently already left to do his space and time and leaving Joey alone thing.

“Yeah, I got him,” Trigger says, and he does, hauls Joey like a sack of potatoes outside even though Joey is perfectly capable of walking with his own two feet.

“Cool driving back after we drop him off?” Trigger asks the Uber driver when he comes, and Joey feels bad that Trigger has to leave just to babysit him, but that’s like — what he gets for his best friend being nowhere to be found.

“Why’s Scratch ignoring me?” Joey asks.

Trigger sighs. It’s a sigh of a dude who like, knows things. Including the answer.

“Trigger?” Joey asks. Trigger’s shoulders go tense, and Joey sits up from his slump, following it up with an embarrassingly urgent sounding, “Lee?”

“Just give him time and space or whatever the hell,” Trigger says. “Quit bugging him about it and leave _me_ out of it.”

Joey pulls out his phone, then scowls when Trigger plucks it right out of his hands. 

“No,” he says.

“Fine,” Joey says. 

Trigger tells the Uber driver he’ll be back in five when they get to Joey’s building, walks him up, less like he’s making sure Joey gets up there safe and more like a scary bouncer making sure Joey doesn’t bolt and run for Scratch’s floor. He gives Joey his phone back at the door, but with an equally scary glint that tells Joey that if he starts texting Scratch he’s going to be on Trigger’s hit list. 

“If you text Scratch—” Trigger says. 

“Yeah, hit list, your eyes already told me,” Joey says.

Trigger snorts.

“Make sure Owen gets home safe?” Joey asks.

“Okay,” Trigger says. 

“Thanks,” Joey says, and he unlocks his phone when he gets inside, but just to respond to a text Owen sent asking Joey to let him know when he got home. 

_home safe sorry I was a big drunkee_ Joey texts. He’s not sure that’s the right spelling or that it’s like — even a word, but it gets his point across.

Joey’s filling up his second glass of water — he’s drunk, not reckless — when Owen texts back with a smiley, tells him he’s far from the worst, accompanied by a picture of a pile of bodies on the floor. Not like, dead bodies, obviously. Just a bunch of idiots Joey knows, in various states of undress, looking like they’re trying to swim on the floor or something. That may actually be what they’re doing. Attempting. Drunkenly.

Joey hopes Willy tips the bartenders so great tonight. Goes one further, texting him _tip the bartenders so great tonight_ , just to make sure.

He finishes his second glass of water, considers the idea of food — too risky — and goes to bed like a good boy. He’s probably going to be the guy on the team waking up in the least pain tomorrow, except, well. Scratch. Who knows about Scratch. Not Joey.

He wakes up a bit dry-mouthed but mostly fine, to an absolutely horrifying amount of pictures in the team chat, and an absolutely horrifying level of drunkenness on display in pretty much all of them. The one of Willy leaning on Cuddles with his eyes half shut and his mouth half open is possibly the only unflattering picture of Tate Williams ever taken. 

He saves it to his phone, obviously, sends Willy a cheerful ‘good morning!’ that he imagines will get a response including the words ‘fuck you’, but not for at least several hours. Willy turns into a stoic monk once the postseason arrives — no drinks, nothing outside his strict diet, no fun in his vicinity unless you want to get glared at — but he goes _real_ hard in his last hurrah before Deadly Serious Time, the hockey player equivalent of getting plastered at your bachelor party or something, with the Stanley Cup being Willy’s eventual wife, at least Willy hopes so. Joey hopes so too. It feels right this year, feels like they’ve got this, even though that seems to be the only thing going right, the only thing Joey’s got going. 

He is not going to spend today feeling sorry for himself. He refuses. No robe, no tea with honey, no tasty little jam triangles, no Scratch watching TV with him, not that Scratch would want to anyway. He’s got things going for him: he’s not hungover, unlike the vast majority of his teammates. He’s still got some of his teeth left. He lives only a few floors away from his best friend, though it could be a thousand miles away for all the difference it makes. 

Joey pops some bread in the toaster, fills up his electric kettle, and returns to his room to find his robe.


End file.
